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The Healing Process
by Megs
Dedicated to Starr. Finally, hopefully sweet Chase/Foreman that doesn't involve
alcohol at all. Yay.
. - . - . - .
The street was long, and damp. Robert Chase tightened his jacket around himself as he
watched his father's taxi disappear into darkness, and had the sudden urge to run down
that street. Maybe he'd jump in front of the cab, get them to stop--it'd be like a movie.
He'd wrap his arms around him again, beg him to stay, and Rowan would say something
paternal and they'd live happily ever after and all wounds healed--the end.
Instead, he blinked hard and turned around, his shoes slapping against the wet ground
rhythmically as he approached his car. The street lights were reflected and distorted in the
puddles, like fire--as if there were candles lining the sidewalk. He kicked at them
absently, feeling sickly satisfied as he destroyed a little candle with each step. He slid
into the driver's seat and sat for a moment, pressing his palms against his eyes painfully,
so hard that he saw colors. When he removed them he couldn't help but sniffle, give a
small shake. Head tilted forward, he allowed a tear to slip down his nose, where it rested
at the tip like a raindrop. He brushed it away, feeling ashamed and ridiculous.
He glanced up and took a deep breath, looking at his passenger seat where Eric Foreman
sat still, looking back sympathetically with large eyes in which the street lights were
creating the illusion of fire in Foreman's eyes. If it had been anyone else, Chase would
have been annoyed at the pity that he saw there. But Foreman wasn't just anyone else.
He said nothing, and for that Chase was grateful. Foreman reached one large hand across
the seat and rested it on Chase's knee, and, in turn, Chase put his hand over it. He stared
at their intertwined fingers a moment, enjoying the contrast of Foreman's dark skin on his
own pallid complexion before he looked out at the wet street again, and, blinking, smiled.
. - . - . - .
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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